How I recall the fields of youth
where toil was play, so wild, uncouth;
our dreams stretched far beyond all sight,
to skies of blue and suns of white,
as lads did cry, "Excelsior!"

So many miles and paths we've trod,
few known to man, yet all to God.
Can a decade passed seem so long,
when the prize still shines so strong?
Somehow we'll fly--excelsior!

Then--so soft--the burdens pile;
a day's a month, one step's a mile
gone beyond the intended turn.
Sweet heartache becomes heartburn.
Oh, that old lie, "Excelsior..."

The caravan halts to resupply
and somehow instead mouths multiply,
divide pillowed dreams from your head,
carve up your hard earned bacon and bread.
Still the cry, "Excelsior!"

Onward, you try, in lean, chill December
summer whiskeyed warmth to remember.
The nights grow short, the bed too cold;
your back cracks stiff; your friends look old.
yet faint the cry, "Excelsior!"

I pray, death faced, you will rejoice
to rest in peace; then comes a voice
that rumbles thunder from the dome:
"You followed me. I'll bring you home."
Your home lies ever "excelsior."

(This is a parodic exercise on "Excelsior," which means "higher/ upward" in Latin. I recommend the original. Written around a friend's 30th birthday.)

05/27/2009

Posted on 05/28/2009
Copyright © 2024 Laurie Duncan